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/ 


The  One  Hoss  Shay 

With  its  Companion  Poems 
Plow  the  Old  Horse  Won  the  Bet 
& 

The  Broomstick  Train 
By  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes 
With  Illustrations  by 
Howard  Pyle 


Boston  and  New  York 
Houghton,  Mifflin  and  Company 
($6e  Btoersi&e  $re0s\  Camfcn&Qe 

M DCCC  XCV 

ists 


Copyright,  1858,  1877,  1886,  and  1890, 
By  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES. 

Copyright,  1891, 

By  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  & CQ 


All  rights  reserved \ 


The  Riverside  Press , Cambridge , Mass.,  U.  S.  A. 
Electrotyped  and  Printed  by  H.  O.  Houghton  & Co. 


My  publishers  suggested  the  bringing  together 
of  the  three  poems  here  presented  to  the  reader 
as  being  to  some  extent  alike  in  their  general 
character.  “ The  Wonderful  One-Hoss  Shay  ” 
is  a perfectly  intelligible  conception,  whatever 
material  difficulties  it  presents.  It  is  conceiv- 
able that  a being  of  an  order  superior  to  human- 
ity should  so  understand  the  conditions  of  mat- 
ter that  he  could  construct  a machine  which 
should  go  to  pieces,  if  not  into  its  constituent 
atoms,  at  a given  moment  of  the  future.  The 
mind  may  take  a certain  pleasure  in  this  picture 
of  the  impossible.  The  event  follows  as  a logi- 
cal consequence  of  the  presupposed  condition  of 
things. 

There  is  a practical  lesson  to  be  got  out  of 
the  story.  Observation  shows  us  in  what  point 


4 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 
in  2016 


https://archive.org/details/onehossshaywithi00holm_0 


Preface 


any  particular  mechanism  is  most  likely  to  give 
way.  In  a wagon,  for  instance,  the  weak  point 
is  where  the  axle  enters  the  hub  or  nave.  When 
the  wagon  breaks  down,  three  times  out  of  four, 
I think,  it  is  at  this  point  that  the  accident  oc- 
curs. The  workman  should  see  to  it  that  this 
part  should  never  give  way ; then  find  the  next 
vulnerable  place,  and  so  on,  until  he  arrives  logi- 
cally at  the  perfect  result  attained  by  the  dea- 
con. 

Unquestionably  there  is  something  a little  like 
extravagance  in  “ How  the  Old  Horse  won  the 
Bet,”  which  taxes  the  credulity  of  experienced 
horsemen.  Still  there  have  been  a good  many 
surprises  in  the  history  of  the  turf  and  the  trot- 
ting course. 

The  Godolphin  Arabian  was  taken  from  ig- 
noble drudgery  to  become  the  patriarch  of  the 
English  racing  stock. 

Old  Dutchman  was  transferred  from  between 

5 


Preface 


the  shafts  of  a cart  to  become  a champion  of  the 
American  trotters  in  his  time. 

“ Old  Blue,”  a famous  Boston  horse  of  the 
early  decades  of  this  century,  was  said  to  trot 
a mile  in  less  than  three  minutes,  but  I do  not 
find  any  exact  record  of  his  achievements. 

Those  who  have  followed  the  history  of  the 
American  trotting  horse  are  aware  of  the  won- 
derful development  of  speed  attained  in  these 
last  years.  The  lowest  time  as  yet  recorded  is 
by  Maud  S.  in  2.08J. 

If  there  are  any  anachronisms  or  other  in- 
accuracies in  this  story,  the  reader  will  please  to 
remember  that  the  narrator's  memory  is  liable 
to  be  at  fault,  and  if  the  event  recorded  interests 
him,  will  not  worry  over  any  little  slips  or  stum- 
bles. 

The  terrible  witchcraft  drama  of  1692  has 
been  seriously  treated,  as  it  well  deserves  to  be. 

6 


/ 


Preface 


The  story  has  been  told  in  two  large  volumes 
by  the  Rev.  Charles  Wentworth  Upham,  and  in 
a small  and  more  succinct  volume,  based  upon 
his  work,  by  his  daughter-in-law,  Caroline  E. 
Upham. 

The  delusion  commonly  spoken  of,  as  if  it 
belonged  to  Salem,  was  more  widely  diffused 
through  the  towns  of  Essex  County.  Looking 
upon  it  as  a pitiful  and  long  dead  and  buried 
superstition,  I trust  my  poem  will  no  more  offend 
the  good  people  of  Essex  County  than  Tam 
O’Shanter  worries  the  honest  folk  of  Ayrshire. 

The  localities  referred  to  are  those  with  which 
I am  familiar  in  my  drives  about  Essex  County. 


July , *891. 


O.  W.  H. 


THE  DEACON’S  MASTERPIECE.  page 

The  Deacon Frontispiece. 

Half  Title  n 

The  Masterpiece 12 

“ A chaise  breaks  down” 14 

“ The  Deacon  inquired  of  the  village  folk”  . . .16 

“ Naow  she  ’ll  dew” 18 

“ She  was  a wonder,  and  nothing  less  ” . . . .19 

“ Deacon  and  deaconess  dropped  away  ” . . 20 

“ Eighteen  Hundred” . 21 

“Fifty-Five” . . 21 

“ Its  hundredth  year  ” 22 

“ A general  flavor  of  mild  decay  ” ....  23 

u In  another  hour  it  will  be  worn  out  ” . . . .24 

“ The  parson  takes  a drive  ” 25 

“ All  at  once  the  horse  stood  still  ” ....  26 

“ Then  something  decidedly  like  a spill”  ...  27 

“ Just  as  bubbles  do  when  they  burst  ” . . . .28 

li  End  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss-shay  ”...  29 

HOW  THE  OLD  HORSE  WON  THE  BET. 

Half  Title  . ........  30 


8 


List  of  I Ihistrations 


“ The  famous  trotting  ground” 31 

“ Many  a noted  steed  ” 32 

“ The  Sunday  swell  ” 33 

“ The  jointed  tandem” 34 

“ So  shy  with  us,  so  free  with  these”  . . . . 35 

“ The  lovely  bonnets  beamed  their  smiles  ” . *36 

“ I ’ll  bet  you  two  to  one  ” 37 

“ Harnessed  in  his  one-hoss-shay 38 

“ The  sexton  . . . led  forth  the  horse  ” . 40 

“ A sight  to  see  ” 41 

“ They  lead  him,  limping,  to  the  track  ” . 42 

“ To  limber  out  each  stiffened  joint  ” . . c 43 

“ Something  like  a stride  ” . . . . . . 45 

“ A mighty  stride  he  swung  ” . . . . .4  7 

“ Off  went  a shoe  ” 48 

“ And  now  the  stand  he  rushes  by  ” . . . . 50 

“ And  off  they  spring  ” . . . , . . 51 

“ They  follow  at  his  heels  ” ......  52 

“They ’re  losing  ground”  52 

“ He ’s  distanced  all  the  lot  ” . . „ . . *53 

“ Some  took  his  time”  ......  54 

“ Back  in  the  one-hoss  shay  he  went  ” . . . 56 

“ A horse  can  trot,  for  all  he’s  old”  . . * . 57 

THE  BROOMSTICK  TRAIN. 

Half  Title 58 

“ Clear  the  track  ” 59 

“ An  Essex  Deacon  dropped  in  to  call  ” ...  60 

“ The  old  dwellings  ” 61 

“ The  small  square  windows  ” 61 

“ Dark,  dim,  Dante-like  solitudes  ” ....  63 


9 


List  of  Illustrations 


“ Norman’s  Woe  ” 

“ The  Screeching  Woman  of  Marblehead  ” 

“ It  is  n’t  fair 

“ You  ’re  a good  old  — fellow  — come,  let  us  go  ” . 
“ See  how  tall  they ’ve  grown  ” . 

“ They  called  the  cats  ” 

“ The  Essex  people  had  dreadful  times  ” . 

“ The  withered  hags  were  free  ” 
u A strange  sea-monster  stole  their  bait  ” . 

“ They  could  hear  him  twenty  miles  ” . 

“ They  came  ...  at  their  master’s  call  ” . 

“ You  can  hear  her  black  cat’s  purr” 

“ Catch  a gleam  from  her  wicked  eye  ” 

Tail  Piece  . ...... 


64 

65 

66 

68 

69 

70 

71 

72 

74 

75 

76 

78 

79 

80 


library 

UNIVERSITY  OF  ILLINOIS 


€f)e  Deacon’s  Masterpiece 

Have  you  heard  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss- 
shay, 

That  was  built  in  such  a logical  way 
It  ran  a hundred  years  to  a day, 

And  then,  of  a sudden,  it  — ah,  but  stay, 

I 'll  tell  yoyi  what  happened  without  delay, 
Scaring  the  parson  into  fits, 


12 


* 


The  Deacon  s Masterpiece 


Frightening  people  out  of  their  wits,  — 
Have  you  ever  heard  of  that,  I say  ? 

Seventeen  hundred  and  fifty-five, 

Georgius  Secundus  was  then  alive,  - — 

Snuffy  old  drone  from  the  German  hive ; 
That  was  the  year  when  Lisbon-town 
Saw  the  earth  open  and  gulp  her  down, 

And  Braddock’s  army  was  done  so  brown, 
Left  without  a scalp  to  its  crown. 

It  was  on  the  terrible  earthquake-day 
That  the  Deacon  finished  the  one-hoss-shay. 

Now  in  building  of  chaises,  I tell  you  what, 
There  is  always  somewhere  a weakest  spot,  — 
In  hub,  tire,  felloe,  in  spring  or  thill, 

In  panel,  or  crossbar,  or  floor,  or  sill, 


13 


The  Deacon's  Masterpiece 


In  screw,  bolt,  thoroughbrace,  — lurking  still, 
Find  it  somewhere  you  must  and  will, — 
Above  or  below,  or  within  or  without,  — 
And  that ’s  the  reason,  beyond  a doubt, 

A chaise  breaks  down , but  does  n’t  wear  out , 

But  the  Deacon  swore  (as  Deacons  do, 

With  an  “ I dew  vum,”  or  an  “ I tell yeou”) 
He  would  build  one  shay  to  beat  the  taown 
n’  the  keounty  ’n’  all  the  kentry  raoun’  ; 

It  should  be  so  built  that  it  couldn  break 
daown  ! 

— “Fur,”  said  the  Deacon,  “ ’t  ’s  mighty  plain 
Thut  the  weakes’  place  mus’  stan’  the  strain  ; 
’ri  the  way  t’  fix  it,  uz  I maintain, 

Is  only  jest 

T’  make  that  place  uz  strong  uz  the  rest.” 


The  Deacons  Masterpiece 


So  the  Deacon  inquired  of  the  village  folk 
Where  he  could  find  the  strongest  oak, 

That  could  n’t  be  split  nor  bent  nor  broke,— 


The  Deacon  s Masterpiece 

That  was  for  spokes  and  floor  and  sills  ; 

He  sent  for  lancewood  to  make  the  thills  ; 
The  crossbars  were  ash,  from  the  straightest 
trees, 

The  panels  of  whitewood,  that  cuts  like 
cheese, 

But  lasts  like  iron  for  things  like  these  ; 

The  hubs  of  logs  from  the  “ Settler’s 
ellum,”  — 

Last  of  its  timber,  — they  could  n’t  sell  ’em, 
Never  an  axe  had  seen  their  chips, 

And  the  wedges  flew  from  between  their  lips 
Their  blunt  ends  frizzled  like  celery-tips ; 
Step  and  prop-iron,  bolt  and  screw, 

Spring,  tire,  axle,  and  linchpin  too, 

Steel  of  the  finest,  bright  and  blue ; 
Thoroughbrace  bison-skin,  thick  and  wide  ; 

1 7 


The  Deacons  Masterpiece 

Boot,  top,  dasher,  from  tough  old  hide 
Found  in  the  pit  when  the  tanner  died. 

That  was  the  way  he  “put  her  through.”  — 
“There!”  said  the  Deacon,  “naow  she’ll 
dew.” 

Do ! I tell  you,  I rather  guess 
She  was  a wonder,  and  nothing  less ! 


The  Deacons  Masterpiece 


Colts  grew  horses,  beards  turned  gray, 
Deacon  and  deaconess  dropped  away, 
Children  and  grandchildren  — where  were 
they  ? 

But  there  stood  the  stout  old  one-hoss-shay 
As  fresh  as  on  Lisbon-earthquake-day ! 


Eighteen  hundred  ; — it  came  and  found 
The  Deacon’s  Masterpiece  strong  and  sound. 
Eighteen  hundred  increased  by  ten  ; — 

“ Hahnsum  kerridge  ” they  called  it  then. 
Eighteen  hundred  and  twenty  came  ; — 
Running  as  usual  ; much  the  same. 

Thirty  and  forty  at  last  arrive, 

And  then  come  fifty,  and  fifty-five. 


1855 


Little  of  all  we  value  here 

Wakes  on  the  morn  of  its  hundredth  year 

Without  both  feeling  and  looking  queer. 

In  fact,  there  ’s  nothing  that  keeps  its  youth 
So  far  as  I know,  but  a tree  and  truth. 

(This  is  a moral  that  runs  at  large  ; 

Take  it.  — You  're  welcome.  — No  extra 
charge.) 


22 


First  of  November,  — the  Earthquake- 
day.  — 

There  are  traces  of  age  in  the  one-hoss-shay? 
A general  flavor  of  mild  decay, 

But  nothing  local,  as  one  may  say. 


23 


The  Deacon  s Masterpiece 


There  could  n’t  be,  — for  the  Deacon’s  art 
Had  made  it  so  like  in  every  part 
That  there  was  n’t  a chance  for  one  to  start. 
For  the  wheels  were  just  as  strong  as  the  thills, 
And  the  floor  was  just  as  strong  as  the  sills, 
And  the  panels  just  as  strong  as  the  floor, 
And  the  whippletree  neither  less  nor  more, 
And  the  back-crossbar  as  strong  as  the  fore, 
And  spring  and  axle  and  hub  encore , 

And  yet,  as  a whole , it  is  past  a doubt 
In  another  hour  it  will  be  worn  out ! 


The  Deacons  Masterpiece 


First  of  November,  'Fifty-five  ! 

This  morning  the  parson  takes  a drive. 

Now,  small  boys,  get  out  of  the  way  ! 

Here  comes  the  wonderful  one-hoss-shay, 
Drawn  by  a rat-tailed,  ewe-necked  bay. 

“ Huddup  ! ” said  the  parson.  — Off  went 
they. 


The  parson  was  working  his  Sunday’s  text,  — 
Had  got  to  fifthly , and  stopped  perplexed 
At  what  the  — Moses  — was  coming  next. 
All  at  once  the  horse  stood  still, 

Close  by  the  meet’n’-house  on  the  hill 
— First  a shiver,  and  then  a thrill, 

Then  something  decidedly  like  a spill,  — 


26 


The  Deacons  Masterpiece 


And  the  parson  was  sitting  upon  a rock, 

At  half-past  nine  by  the  meet’n’-house 
clock,  — 

Just  the  hour  of  the  Earthquake  shock  ! 

— What  do  you  think  the  parson  found, 
When  he  got  up  and  stared  around  ? 

The  poor  old  chaise  in  a heap  or  mound, 

As  if  it  had  been  to  the  mill  and  ground ! 
You  see,  of  course,  if  you  ’re  not  a dunce, 
How  it  went  to  pieces  all  at  once,  — 

All  at  once,  and  nothing  first,  — 

Just  as  bubbles  do  when  they  burst 

D 


The  Deacons  Masterpiece 


End  of  the  wonderful  one-hoss-shay. 
Logic  is  logic.  That ’s  all  I say. 


I^oto  tf)e  ^orsfc  JBoit  tf)c 

’T  was  on  the  famous  trotting-ground, 

The  betting  men  were  gathered  round 
From  far  and  near  ; the  “ cracks  ” were  there 
Whose  deeds  the  sporting  prints  declare  : 
The  swift  g.  m.,  Old  Hiram’s  nag, 

The  fleet  s.  h.,  Dan  Pfeiffers  brag, 


3i 


How  the  Old  Horse  Won 


With  these  a third  — and  who  is  he 
That  stands  beside  his  fast  b.  g.  ? 
Budd  Doble,  whose  catarrhal  name 
So  fills  the  nasal  trump  of  fame. 


There  too  stood  many  a noted  steed 
Of  Messenger  and  Morgan  breed  ; 
Green  horses  also,  not  a few ; 
Unknown  as  yet  what  they  could  do ; 
And  all  the  hacks  that  know  so  well 
The  scourgings  of  the  Sunday  swell. 


32 


"Thefunday  fwell 


How  the  Old  Horse  Won 


Blue  are  the  skies  of  opening  day  ; 

The  bordering  turf  is  green  with  May  ; 

The  sunshine’s  golden  gleam  is  thrown 
On  sorrel,  chestnut,  bay,  and  roan  ; 

The  horses  paw  and  prance  and  neigh, 

Fillies  and  colts  like  kittens  play, 

And  dance  and  toss  their  rippled  manes 
Shining  and  soft  as  silken  skeins ; 

Wagons  and  gigs  are  ranged  about, 

And  fashion  flaunts  her  gay  turn-out  ; 

Here  stands,  — each  youthful  Jehu’s 
dream,  — 

The  jointed  tandem,  ticklish  team  ! 


How  the  Old  Horse  Won 

And  there  in  ampler  breadth  expand 
The  splendors  of  the  four-in-hand  ; 

On  faultless  ties  and  glossy  tiles 
The  lovely  bonnets  beam  their  smiles  ; 
(The  style ’s  the  man,  so  books  avow ; 
The  style  ’s  the  woman,  anyhow;) 

From  flounces  frothed  with  creamy  lace 
Peeps  out  the  pug-dog’s  smutty  face, 

Or  spaniel  rolls  his  liquid  eye, 

Or  stares  the  wiry  pet  of  Skye  ; — 

O woman,  in  your  hours  of  ease 
So  shy  with  us,  so  free  with  these ! 


o n faultlefs  ties  and  gloffy  tiles 
The  lovely  bonnets  beam  t heir  fmiles 


How  the  Old  Horse  Won 


“ Come  on  ! I ’ll  bet  you  two  to  one 
I ’ll  make  him  do  it ! ” “ Will  you  ? Done  ! ” 

What  was  it  who  was  bound  to  do  ? 

I did  not  hear  and  can’t  tell  you,  — 

Pray  listen  till  my  story ’s  through. 


Scarce  noticed,  back  behind  the  rest, 

By  cart  and  wagon  rudely  prest, 

The  parson’s  lean  and  bony  bay 
Stood  harnessed  in  his  one-horse  shay — ■ 
Lent  to  his  sexton  for  the  day  ; 

(A  funeral  — so  the  sexton  said  ; 

His  mothers  uncle’s  wife  was  dead.) 

Like  Lazarus  bid  to  Dives’  feast, 

So  looked  the  poor  forlorn  old  beast ; 


38 


How  the  Old  Horse  Won 


His  coat  was  rough,  his  tail  was  bare, 

The  gray  was  sprinkled  in  his  hair  ; 
Sportsmen  and  jockeys  knew  him  not, 

And  yet  they  say  he  once  could  trot 
Among  the  fleetest  of  the  town, 

Till  something  cracked  and  broke  him 
down,  — 

The  steed’s,  the  statesman’s,  common  lot ! 

“ And  are  we  then  so  soon  forgot  ? ” 

Ah  me  ! I doubt  if  one  of  you 
Has  ever  heard  the  name  “ Old  Blue,” 
Whose  fame  through  all  this  region  rung 
In  those  old  days  when  I was  young  ! 

“ Bring  forth  the  horse  ! ” Alas  ! he  showed 
Not  like  the  one  Mazeppa  rode; 


39 


How  the  Old  Horse  Won 


Scant  - maned,  sharp  - backed,  and  shaky- 
kneed, 

The  wreck  of  what  was  once  a steed, 

Lips  thin,  eyes  hollow,  stiff  in  joints; 

Yet  not  without  his  knowing  points. 

The  sexton  laughing  in  his  sleeve, 

As  if ’t  were  all  a make-believe, 

Led  forth  the  horse,  and  as  he  laughed 


How  the  Old  Horse  Won 


Unhitched  the  breeching  from  a shaft, 
Unclasped  the  rusty  belt  beneath, 
Drew  forth  the  snaffle  from  his  teeth, 
Slipped  off  his  head-stall,  set  him  free 
From  strap  and  rein,  — a sight  to  see  ! 


How  the  Old  Horse  Won 


So  worn,  so  lean  in  every  limb, 

It  can’t  be  they  are  saddling  him  ! 

It  is  ! his  back  the  pig-skin  strides 
And  flaps  his  lank,  rheumatic  sides  ; 
With  look  of  mingled  scorn  and  mirth 
They  buckle  round  the  saddle-girth ; 
With  horsey  wink  and  saucy  toss 
A youngster  throws  his  leg  across, 
And  so,  his  rider  on  his  back, 

They  lead  him,  limping,  to  the  track, 
Far  up  behind  the  starting-point, 

To  limber  out  each  stiffened  joint. 


K^ie 


“To  limber  out  eacK 

ftiffened  joint  " 


How  the  Old  Horse  Won 


As  through  the  jeering  crowd  he  past, 

One  pitying  look  old  Hiram  cast ; 

“ Go  it,  ye  cripple,  while  ye  can  ! ” 

Cried  out  unsentimental  Dan  ; 

“A  Fast-Day  dinner  for  the  crows  ! ” 

Buad  Doble’s  scoffing  shout  arose. 

Slowly,  as  when  the  walking-beam 
First  feels  the  gathering  head  of  steam, 

With  warning  cough  and  threatening  wheeze 
The  stiff  old  charger  crooks  his  knees  ; 

At  first  with  cautious  step  sedate, 

As  if  he  dragged  a coach  of  state ; 

He ’s  not  a colt ; he  knows  full  well 
That  time  is  weight  and  sure  to  tell ; 

No  horse  so  sturdy  but  he  fears 
The  handicap  of  twenty  years. 

44 


How  the  Old  Horse  Won 


As  through  the  throng  on  either  hand 
The  old  horse  nears  the  judges*  stand, 
Beneath  his  jockey’s  feather-weight 
He  warms  a little  to  his  gait, 

And  now  and  then  a step  is  tried 
That  hints  of  something  like  a stride. 


£ 


How  the  Old  Horse  Won 


“ Go  ! ” — Through  his  ear  the  summons 
stung 

As  if  a battle-trump  had  rung ; 

The  slumbering  instincts  long  unstirred 
Start  at  the  old  familiar  word ; 

It  thrills  like  flame  through  every  limb  — 
What  mean  his  twenty  years  to  him  ? 

The  savage  blow  his  rider  dealt 
Fell  on  his  hollow  flanks  unfelt  ; 

The  spur  that  pricked  his  staring  hide 
Unheeded  tore  his  bleeding  side; 

Alike  to  him  are  spur  and  rein,  — 

He  steps  a five-year-old  again  ! 

Before  the  quarter  pole  was  past, 

Old  Hiram  said,  “ He ’s  going  fast.” 

46 


How  the  Old  Horse  Won 

Long  ere  the  quarter  was  a half, 

The  chuckling  crowd  had  ceased  to  laugh  ; 
Tighter  his  frightened  jockey  clung 
As  in  a mighty  stride  he  swung, 

The  gravel  flying  in  his  track, 

His  neck  stretched  out,  his  ears  laid  back, 
His  tail  extended  all  the  while 
Behind  him  like  a rat-tail  file  ! 


How  the  Old  Horse  Won 


Off  went  a shoe,  — away  it  spun, 

Shot  like  a bullet  from  a gun ; 

The  quaking  jockey  shapes  a prayer 
From  scraps  of  oaths  he  used  to  swear ; 
He  drops  his  whip,  he  drops  his  rein, 
He  clutches  fiercely  for  a mane  ; 


6, 


How  the  Old  Horse  Won 


He  ’ll  lose  his  hold  — he  sways  and  reels  — 
He  ’ll  slide  beneath  those  trampling  heels  ! 
The  knees  of  many  a horseman  quake, 

The  flowers  on  many  a bonnet  shake, 

And  shouts  arise  from  left  and  right, 

“ Stick  on!  Stick  on!”  “ Hould  tight  \ 
Hould  tight ! ” 

“ Cling  round  his  neck  and  don’t  let  go  — 

“ That  pace  can’t  hold,  — there  ! steady  ! 
whoa ! ” 

But  like  the  sable  steed  that  bore 
The  spectral  lover  of  Lenore, 

His  nostrils  snorting  foam  and  fire, 

No  stretch  his  bony  limbs  can  tire  ; 

And  now  the  stand  he  rushes  by, 

And  “ Stop  him  ! — stop  him  ! ” is  the  cry. 

49 


How  the  Old  Horse  Won 


Stand  back  ! he  ’s  only  just  begun,  — 

He ’s  having  out  three  heats  in  one  ! 

“ Don’t  rush  in  front ! he  ’ll  smash  your 
brains ; 

But  follow  up  and  grab  the  reins  ! ” 

Old  Hiram  spoke.  Dan  Pfeiffer  heard, 

And  sprang  impatient  at  the  word ; 

Budd  Doble  started  on  his  bay, 

Old  Hiram  followed  on  his  gray, 

And  off  they  spring,  and  round  they  go, 

The  fast  ones  doing  “all  they  know.” 


Look  ! twice  they  follow  at  his  heels, 

As  round  the  circling  course  he  wheels, 

And  whirls  with  him  that  clinging  boy 
Like  Hector  round  the  walls  of  Troy  ; 

Still  on,  and  on,  the  third  time  round ! 

They  ’re  tailing  off ! they  ’re  losing  ground  ! 


How  the  Old  Horse  Won 


Budd  Doble’s  nag  begins  to  fail  ! 

Dan  Pfeiffer’s  sorrel  whisks  his  tail ! 
And  see ! in  spite  of  whip  and  shout. 
Old  Hiram’s  mare  is  giving  out ! 

Now  for  the  finish  ! at  the  turn, 

The  old  horse  — all  the  rest  astern,  — 
Comes  swinging  in,  with  easy  trot  ; 

By  Jove  ! he ’s  distanced  all  the  lot  ! 


That  trot  no  mortal  could  explain  ; 

Some  said,  “ Old  Dutchman  come  again  ! ” 
Some  took  his  time,  — at  least  they  tried, 
But  what  it  was  could  none  decide ; 

One  said  he  could  n’t  understand 
What  happened  to  his  second  hand  ; 

One  said  2. 10 ; that  could  n’t  be  — 

More  like  two  twenty  two  or  three ; 


54 


How  the  Old  Horse  Won 


Old  Hiram  settled  it  at  last  ; 

“ The  time  was  two  — too  dee-vel-ish  fast  ! 

The  parson’s  horse  had  won  the  bet ; 

It  cost  him  something  of  a sweat ; 

Back  in  the  one-hoss  shay  he  went ; 

The  parson  wondered  what  it  meant, 

And  murmured,  with  a mild  surprise 
And  pleasant  twinkle  of  the  eyes, 

“ That  funeral  must  have  been  a trick, 

Or  corpses  drive  at  double-quick ; 

I should  n’t  wonder,  I declare, 

If  brother  — Jehu  — made  the  prayer  ! ” 

And  this  is  all  I have  to  say 
About  that  tough  old  trotting  bay. 
Huddup!  Huddup  ! G’lang!  — Good-day! 
55 


How  the  Old  Horse  Won 


Moral  for  which  this  tale  is  told  : 
A horse  can  trot,  for  all  he ’s  old. 


1_sg£3 

The 

BROOMSTICK 
TRAIN 

Hit  or 

f The  Return  of  the 
WITCHES 


Cfje  2Srooni£ticJt  Crain 

Look  out ! Look  out,  boys  ! Clear  the  track  ! 

The  witches  are  here  ! They  've  all  come 
back  ! 

They  hanged  them  high,  — No  use  ! No 
use ! 

What  cares  a witch  for  a hangman's  noose  i 

They  buried  them  deep,  but  they  would  n't  lie 
still, 

For  cats  and  witches  are  hard  to  kill ; 


59 


The  Broomstick  Train 


They  swore  they  should  n’t  and  would  n’t 
die,  — 

Books  said  they  did,  but  they  lie  ! they  lie  ! 

— A couple  of  hundred  years,  or  so, 

They  had  knocked  about  in  the  world  below, 
When  an  Essex  Deacon  dropped  in  to  call, 
And  a homesick  feeling  seized  them  all  ; 

For  he  came  from  a place  they  knew  full  well, 
And  many  a tale  he  had  to  tell. 


They  long  to  visit  the  haunts  of  men, 

To  see  the  old  dwellings  they  knew  again, 
And  ride  on  their  broomsticks  all  around 
Their  wide  domain  of  unhallowed  ground. 

In  Essex  county  there  ’s  many  a roof 
Well  known  to  him  of  the  cloven  hoof ; 

The  small  square  windows  are  full  in  view 
Which  the  midnight  hags  went  sailing 


through, 


The  Broomstick  Train 


On  their  well-trained  broomsticks  mounted 
high, 

Seen  like  shadows  against  the  sky ; 

Crossing  the  track  of  owls  and  bats, 

Hugging  before  them  their  coal-black  cats. 

Well  did  they  know,  those  gray  old  wives, 
The  sights  we  see  in  our  daily  drives : 
Shimmer  of  lake  and  shine  of  sea, 

Brown's  bare  hill  with  its  lonely  tree, 

(It  was  n’t  then  as  we  see  it  now, 

With  one  scant  scalp-lock  to  shade  its  brow  ;) 
Dusky  nooks  in  the  Essex  woods, 

Dark,  dim,  Dante-like  solitudes, 

Where  the  tree-toad  watches  the  sinuous 
snake 

Glide  through  his  forests  of  fern  and  brake ; 


62 


The  Broomstick  Train 


Ipswich  River  ; its  old  stone  bridge  ; 

Far  off  Andover’s  Indian  Ridge, 

And  many  a scene  where  history  tells 
Some  shadow  of  bygone  terror  dwells,  — 

Of  “ Norman’s  Woe”  with  its  tale  of  dread, 


Of  the  Screeching  Woman  of  Marblehead, 
(The  fearful  story  that  turns  men  pale  : 
Don’t  bid  me  tell  it,  — my  speech  would  fail.) 

Who  would  not,  will  not,  if  he  can, 

Bathe  in  the  breezes  of  fair  Cape  Ann,  — > 
Rest  in  the  bowers  her  bays  enfold, 

Loved  by  the  sachems  and  squaws  of  old  ? 
Home  where  the  white  magnolias  bloom, 

65 


The  Broomstick  Train 


Sweet  with  the  bayberry’s  chaste  perfume, 
Hugged  by  the  woods  and  kissed  by  the  sea  ! 
Where  is  the  Eden  like  to  thee  ? 

For  that  “ couple  of  hundred  years,  or  so,” 
There  had  been  no  peace  in  the  world  below  ; 
The  witches  still  grumbling,  “ It  is  n’t  fair  ; 
Come,  give  us  a taste  of  the  upper  air ! 

We ’ve  had  enough  of  your  sulphur  springs, 
And  the  evil  odor  that  round  them  clings  ; 
We  long  for  a drink  that  is  cool  and  nice,  — 
Great  buckets  of  water  with  Wenham  ice  ; 


The  Broomstick  Tram 


We  ’ve  served  you  well  up-stairs,  you  know  ; 
You’re  a good  old — fellow  — come,  let  us 
go!” 

I don’t  feel  sure  of  his  being  good, 

Buthe  happened  to  be  in  a pleasant  mood,  — 
As  fiends  with  their  skins  full  sometimes 
are,  — 

(He’d  been  drinking  with  “ roughs”  at  a 
Boston  bar.) 

So  what  does  he  do  but  up  and  shout 
To  a graybeard  turnkey,  “ Let  ’em  out ! ” 

To  mind  his  orders  was  all  he  knew ; 

The  gates  swung  open,  and  out  they  flew 
u Where  are  our  broomsticks  ?”  the  beldams 
cried. 


67 


The  Broomstick  Train 


“ Here  are  your  broomsticks,”  an  imp  replied. 
“ They  ’ve  been  in  — the  place  you  know  — 
so  long 

They  smell  of  brimstone  uncommon  strong  ; 
But  they  ’ve  gained  by  being  left  alone,  — 


Just  look,  and  you  ’ll  see  how  tall  they've 
grown.” 


— “ And  where  is  my  cat  ? ” a vixen  squalled. 
“Yes,  where  are  our  cats?”  the  witches 
bawled, 

And  began  to  call  them  all  by  name : 

As  fast  as  they  called  the  cats,  they  came  *. 
There  was  bob-tailed  Tommy  and  long-tailed 
Tim, 

And  wall-eyed  Jacky  and  green-eyed  Jim, 
And  splay-foot  Benny  and  slim-legged  Beau, 
And  Skinny  and  Squally,  and  Jerry  and  Joe, 

70 


The  Broomstick  Train 


And  many  another  that  came  at  call,  — 

It  would  take  too  long  to  count  them  all 
All  black,  — one  could  hardly  tell  which  was 
which, 

But  every  cat  knew  his  own  old  witch  ; 

And  she  knew  hers  as  hers  knew  her,  — ■ 

Ah,  did  n’t  they  curl  their  tails  and  purr  ! 

No  sooner  the  withered  hags  were  free 
Than  out  they  swarmed  for  a midnight  spree  ; 
I could  n’t  tell  all  they  did  in  rhymes, 

But  the  Essex  people  had  dreadful  times. 


he  withered  ha^  were  free™ 


The  Broomstick  Train 


The  Swampscott  fishermen  still  relate 

How  a strange  sea-monster  stole  their  bait ; 

How  their  nets  were  tangled  in  loops  and 
knots, 

And  they  found  dead  crabs  in  their  lobster- 
pots. 

Poor  Danvers  grieved  for  her  blasted  crops, 

And  Wilmington  mourned  over  mildewed 
hops. 

A blight  played  havoc  with  Beverly  beans,  — 

It  was  all  the  work  of  those  hateful  queans  ! 

A dreadful  panic  began  at  “ Pride’s,” 

Where  the  witches  stopped  in  their  midnight 
rides, 

And  there  rose  strange  rumors  and  vague 
alarms 

’Mid  the  peaceful  dwellers  at  Beverly  Farms. 

73 


The  Broomstick  Train 


Now  when  the  Boss  of  the  Beldams  found 
That  without  his  leave  they  were  ramping 
round, 

He  called,  — they  could  hear  him  twenty  miles, 
From  Chelsea  beach  to  the  Misery  Isles  ; 
The  deafest  old  granny  knew  his  tone 
Without  the  trick  of  the  telephone. 


r 


The  Broomstick  Train 


“Come  here,  you  witches!  Come  here!” 
says  he,  — 

“ At  your  games  of  old,  without  asking  me  ! 

I ’ll  give  you  a little  job  to  do 

That  will  keep  you  stirring,  you  godless 
crew ! ” 

They  came,  of  course,  at  their  master’s 
call, 

The  witches,  the  broomsticks,  the  cats,  and 


all; 


The  Broomstick  Train 


He  led  the  hags  to  a railway  train 
The  horses  were  trying  to  drag  in  vain. 

“ Now,  then,”  says  he,  “ you  ’ve  had  your  fun, 
And  here  are  the  cars  you  ’ve  got  to  run. 
The  driver  may  just  unhitch  his  team, 

We  don’t  want  horses,  we  don’t  want  steam : 
You  may  keep  your  old  black  cats  to  hug, 
But  the  loaded  train  you ’ve  got  to  lug.” 

Since  then  on  many  a car  you  ’ll  see 
A broomstick  plain  as  plain  can  be  ; 

On  every  stick  there ’s  a witch  astride,  — 
The  string  you  see  to  her  leg  is  tied. 

She  will  do  a mischief  if  she  can, 

But  the  string  is  held  by  a careful  man, 

And  whenever  the  evil-minded  witch 
Would  cut  some  caper,  he  gives  a twitch. 


77 


As  for  the  hag,  you  can’t  see  her, 

But  hark ! you  can  hear  her  black  cat’s  purr, 
And  now  and  then,  as  a car  goes  by, 

You  may  catch  a gleam  from  her  wicked  eye. 

Often  you  Ve  looked  on  a rushing  train, 

But  just  what  moved  it  was  not  so  plain. 

It  could  n’t  be  those  wires  above, 

For  they  could  neither  pull  nor  shove ; 
Where  was  the  motor  that  made  it  go 
You  could  n’t  guess,  but  now  you  know . 

78 


The  Broomstick  Train 


Remember  my  rhymes  when  you  ride  again 
On  the  rattling  rail  by  the  broomstick  train ! 


W 

The  End 


